The Promise Land
by Ink On Paper
Summary: He isn't expecting anything but shards of a promise he broke . . . . .


**A/N: First off, I will have All We Are Chapter 5 up in less than an hour. Secondly, I thought the Season 7 finale was good, perhaps not to the caliber of last season's, but definitely up to par with typical NCIS brilliancy. I was a little disappointed that Tony (and Gibbs) missed out on Ziva's swearing in, BUT I fixed it. Surely Tony has to be sad that he missed it because surely he wanted her to stay in America, so here is my take on that pent up worry and regret spilling forth. And I have no idea what the timeline on this is because I don't know where Season 8 will pick up -so will just say this takes place whenever Tony gets home. This is part one of a trifecta, and the remaining two will be in no particular order to this. That being said, keep the peace and much love until next time, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own . . . . . nothing. Yes, nothing. **

The Promise Land:

He doesn't know what he expects. He does know he isn't holding his breath. He isn't doing anything really, other than functioning on autopilot. It's all vaguely familiar, the few feelings that escape the carefully erected filter encoded in his mind. There's the guilt, the sadness, the anger, all very habitual emotions. And he sighs, extending his key, the silver glinting off the dull light illuminating the corridor, not even bothering to manage the scraping sound it makes as he stabs it at the doorknob several times.

It's not like anyone's home.

He supposes it's the emptiness of the apartment that is so daunting, the knowledge that there will be nothing to greet him on the other side of the door.

The lock clicks softly and the door swings open in a wide yawning arc and he can only linger on the threshold. The silence is eerie and the darkness oppressing and the lack of life is nearly overwhelming. He wants to scream until his voice is raw or beat his fists against the wall until his knuckles split, but alas he's too numb. And the only mobility he seems capable of is stepping slowly into the foreign territory that is his apartment and the effort it takes nearly saps all of his energy that is left.

Clumsy fingers claw at the wall until connecting with the light switch that brings the lamps scattered throughout the apartment to life. And the cheerful glow that is cast denotes the antithesis of his inner self.

The evidence is everywhere, subtle of course, but everywhere. A bright turquoise mug sits benignly on the countertop, a worn pair of Nikes size seven are discarded in a corner. There's a framed picture of the Eiffel Tower on the shelf above an extensive DVD collection. He can see a Better Homes and Gardens magazine peeking out from beneath a pile of old newspapers, and he knows there is a tattered copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ lurking somewhere under the couch.

His heart is hammering against his ribcage, the palpitations riding the same frequency as the echoes of _You weren't there._

And again the words ring ferocious and crystalline in their veracity.

He would very much like to die.

And in fact, he's suddenly so nauseous and lightheaded, he thinks he might. He steadies himself, leaning against the little table that occupies the tiny space that is considered the foyer. Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, he tilts his head down, finally realizing that he has a roaring migraine. His vision swims, with tears of sadness or pain he can't tell, and he has to blink to clearly distinguish the wood of the floor.

It the white smear in his peripheral vision that captures his attention. He studies the innocuous heel slowly, his brain not connecting with his sight near quick enough. He finds his heart is suddenly in his throat and his mouth is dry as his breathing gets shallow. And he's running down the hall to his bedroom door and pushing it open recklessly, the wood beating harshly against the wall.

She's sitting Indian style in the very center of his bed, dressed in jeans and an old t-shirt he's had for years. Dark hair is falling in loose curls around her shoulders, framing her face, and she still has her makeup on. The glow of the television casts a funny hue on her golden skin, but he scarcely notices because every synapse and neuron is occupied solely on the mere presence of her.

Mahogany eyes are wide at his entrance, but immediately shift to something that isn't hate. Or disappointment. Or anything remotely negative. More shock initially that dissolves into soft neutrality.

"Shalom," she greets quietly, stirring from her position on the bed, migrating toward the edge of the mattress, standing.

"Ziva," he breathes. One word. A whisper, a prayer, a plea.

She cocks her head to the side, studying him, scrutinizing him. She blinks warily and opens her mouth to speak, to perhaps request an explanation to his distress, but his sudden tide of words stops her from asking.

"Ziva. Ziva, I –I am so so sorry. So sorry. I can't believe . . . . I promised. . . . I-" and there is nothing more to say because he's choking on tears.

Bewildered, she moves toward him, wrapping him in a warm embrace, tucking herself into him. He buries his face into her hair, sobbing wholeheartedly and she herself is also slowly breaking down. "I'm sorry." And he's repeating it like a mantra, like everything depends on her hearing it, this declaration of contrition, this plead for her pardon.

"I missed it," he murmurs sorrowfully, more tears escaping and he's just shot his _don't cry_ resolve to hell. "I missed it. I promised you –I promised you I'd be there and I wasn't and, god, I am so sorry."

"Tony," she says, leaning back to see his face, cheeks damp with saline tears and a roughness shadowing his jaw. But he stops her with a finger to her lips and she obliges in allowing him to continue his self-berration in fevered whispers.

"I promised. I promised I'd be there, I promised I wouldn't let you down." _Like your brother, like your father, like Michael, like Gibbs._ And the only solution to shutting him up that she could think of at that exact moment is to press her lips against his. Her hands find their way to the base of his neck, her fingers twisting the short hairs at his nape. And while one of his arms tenses around her waist, tugging her gently closer, his other snakes up so his palm can rest on her cheek. He doesn't dare deepen the kiss, he's convinced he's dreaming anyway, but she does, and it is intense but tender.

He pulls back, inhaling sharply, running his fingers across her face. "I take it I'm forgiven?" and it's a hoarse whisper that doesn't hold any semblance of hope.

She brushes her lips against his once more, slapping his face lightly with her palm, "You are forgiven . . . . Why were you so afraid it would not be so?"

"I've broken so many promises, Ziva-" but she goes up on her tiptoes and he is silent again until he places his forehead against hers and whispers softly, "I love you. I love you so damn much. Do you hear me? Do you really hear me, Ziva? I love you."

"I hear you, Tony. And I, too, love you."

He only hugs her tighter.

Because they're both here now.


End file.
